Soundless clips of us recording “Lip Sync” play on multiple screens.
There’s a lounge area with low tables and paper orb lanterns that are either white or yellow (suggesting moon and sun). A lot of guests have one of two cocktails: something blue and purple and sparkling, or something orange that fades to red.
An elegant stage is decked out in midnight-blue velvet like the sofas in the landing area, and lined with tiny white lights. Golden ropes section off the VIP viewing areas.
Guests are wearing an array of quirky, dressy-casual ensembles. I see metallic silver pants, sequined skirts, galaxy button-downs with jeans, white go-go boots, blue chiffon with glittering stars or sunbursts stamped on top, t-shirts with moonphases or zodiac symbols on them. Someone’s wearing a blazer over a shirt that reads “Don’t laugh, I’m Sirius.”
Music plays in the background, from what is certain to be a curated playlist of my old songs, Griffin’s old songs, and the duets we’ve previously released. Currently it’s a remix of “Let Me Tell You,” a ballad from Griffin’s first albumTrue Story, stripped down to sound more acoustic-pop and appeal to a broader audience.
Soon I’m ushered toward the label’s executives (the president, VP of marketing, director of licensing, and A&R and streaming managers) although Charles isn’t among them for some reason. Bitterly, I think he should really be here—and on time—considering this whole thing (the fake romance, the joint release party, the EP) was largely his brainchild. Anyway, there’s a lot of congratulations and pats on the back, and I also express my gratitude for the resources and the publicity, for all the work the label is doing to launch my new music.
After that, I circulate among celebrity guests. My attention lands on Daisy first because I’m so relieved to see a friendly face.
“Harmony, you look amazing,” she says as she hugs me. “I love the throwback toLucky Stars!”
I adjust my jacket sleeves. “Thanks. It made sense, with the new album title and tonight’s theme and everything.”
And because it serves as a bookend to the chapters of my career it stands for.
My other friends—whom I made sure were invited—emerge to pump me up.
Madison admires the party and the decor and tells me how my whole story with Griffin really should be a movie. Alexa is thoughtful enough to hand me one of the party’s signature cocktails, Midnight Shimmer, which involves blue curaçao, cranberry juice, and edible glitter. Lauren and Clairecompliment my hair and makeup and say how excited they are to hear the music.
We only get a couple minutes to chat though before I have to move on. I sip my Midnight Shimmer and talk to artists, actors, entrepreneurs, then other high-profile guests who aren’t celebrities. Every interaction is short and repetitive, but I try to be as warm and photogenic as possible. Cameras flash around me.
Still no Griffin anywhere.
Where could he be?
“Running late” is one thing, but we’re nearing the time for introductory remarks—I can tell by the way the sound people are milling around on the stage, and by the tapering conversations—and he hasn’t shown his face, let alone made the social rounds like I’ve been doing for the past forty-five minutes.
Then, as I’m caught up talking to the editor ofPopulusabout a dual feature, Griffin steps out of the elevator.
People murmur but overall suppress their excitement.
Meanwhile, I struggle to suppress my eagerness to go to him immediately.
He’s in a long-sleeved dark-gray metallic shirt, dark-wash jeans, and cap toe boots. Like me, he went opposite for his color scheme, as though he instinctively knows how to harmonize with me. When he smiles at someone and flicks his hair off his forehead, I completely lose my train of thought.
“Everything okay?” the editor asks, holding a Tequila Sundown in a gold-rimmed poco grande glass.
Griffin disappears to the soft-arrival landing zone.
“Yeah … uh … I just …” I’m about to make some excuse to walk away, because I have an irresistible urge to talk to Griffin before I give my speech. I can’t go up to the mic without telling him I’m sorry for being MIA all week, for leaving without warning.It wasn’t fair to him, but I hope he understands. “Maybe we can continue this another—”
Sudden applause cuts me off. Guests stop talking. Light shifts to focus somewhere behind me.
I turn to see that Charles has taken the stage. God only knows when he got here, and now he’s chosen a terrible moment to kick things off.
Charles pantomimes his appreciation until the applause dies down, then says, “Thank you all for being here tonight. We’re so excited to celebrate two incredible records, as well as a very unique extended play: Harmony Sonora’sMy Lucky Stars, Riff Hurley’sThere Goes The Sun, and the EP that encompasses tonight’s spectacular theme,Night + Day. It’s been a good year for Glambam, during which two of our more prominent artists came together and put their sometimes-night-and-day differences aside to make a prettystellarplaylist for us. We hope you enjoy the festivities while we watch the countdown.” He gestures to a large timer clock. “Glambam could not be more proud of the talent we represent, and we can’t wait for you all to hear what they’ve created.”
The applause is louder this time, with whistles and cheers mixed in. Goosebumps rise on my arms.
“Before we let you get back to the party though,” Charles adds, “one of our guests of honor has a few words she’d like to say. Harmony Sonora, everybody!”
With all eyes on me now, I ascend the stage, forcing smiles and nodding my thanks for the noise people make for me. I spot Griffin on the stage now too, having snuck in from the back side it seems and finding a spot next to Charles, who shakes his hand in silent greeting.
That’s odd, I think.When did they become so familiar?
